Sunday, April 29, 2012


Hang up the phone with the writing group and we're off.  Think about the non-topic for a few minutes waiting for "Ring." Right on time.

Hello Dad...Back from church... Great...

Had fun as always... Good.

Guest speaker... Great.

Yes, writing class is every Wednesday for 5 weeks... Yes, I still enjoy it.

Take care. Bye, Dad.

A quick run to the kitchen for a TV dinner... Even better: Michelena's pizza bites.  Start writing while that cooks... check the time doing good so back to my room to start writing again for a bit.



What Bri?

Morgan is getting mad and I don't know why.

Pause a moment. Bri... Morgan show sissy what you want..

What’s he doing, Bri?

He's moving his fingers...

Is he signing milk possibly sideways?

Yeah. I will get him some milk, Mom.

Thank you, Bri.

Get several minutes to write then "Ring" again right on time.

Hello Mom... home from church... great.  Yes, I know. I read your email... yes...yes Mom... okay... Mom I need... Okay I will see what I can do... First weekend of the month I know... I have to go now Mom... fine one more thing... what?  I know... I know... I know...Okay... yes... okay... I will tell them... yes I am trying to write for class... Bye Mom.

More writing finally getting it all out.


Can it wait, Bri?

Message from Dad.

What is it, Bri?

Reminder that he is going to Roosters after work for the pool game with Scott and Jason.

Tell him I know I don't care... WRITING CLASS!

He said sorry and he will see you tonight.

Try to get back to writing and take a look at the time... 8:44... Made it!

Wednesday, April 18, 2012


Fruit and roses, roses and fruit.
It became my mantra.
Roses and fruit, fruit and roses.

My Friday morning routine of first going to Sunfrost and then to the Bank of America. The reason I was going to the bank now was because I was having a show of my paintings there during the month of February. In this show, under my wall of ten paintings, there is a table with my sign-in book and a vase holding three roses. Therefore, before I go on to shop for my weekly purchase of organic food every Friday morning I stop at Sunfrost to buy some fruit and three roses. Then on to the Bank of America to replace the three roses I bought the Friday before. One of the main reasons for the vase of three roses is that one of my paintings on this wall is of a vase with three roses.

One day not long ago, I decided to create a small painting of fruit. A white bowl of fruit. Now that this painting is finished, it is hanging on the wall over my kitchen table and under this small painting sitting on my kitchen table is the white bowl of fruit. At the other end of this table sits a vase holding three roses.

Ah. Roses and fruit.
Fruit and roses.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012


“Hello, mom?” that voice coming through the phone speaks with a warm but eerily familiar lilt.

I see an Italianate armoire across a room taller than wide, the tiled roof beyond the patio outside her window thousands of miles from here.

But that voice is full with this moment and, at once, with all the years poured into that sound.

The sparkle-eye toddler drunk with joy flapping her arms as she runs across the yard.

The skinny sad-eyed preschooler in a whirl, a world of conflagration – a missing father – still tender deep pain and confusion in her brow.

Growing, skipping and running, summer school…

Forcing laughter. Pounding fists. Sitting silently slowly eating lunch, not noticing that everyone else had gone inside.

It’s Friday morning – before school with a rush to fill the fading blue Jansport pack with all the essentials for her weekend travel. Ticket, check. Snack, check. Book, check. Pad and crayons, check. Pajamas, check. I drop trinkets (sussies we call them) wrapped in colored tissue paper beneath her clothing. Hat, jacket. Call Gary to make sure he’ll get her on the bus – known locally as “the divorce express”—carrying those wistful wayward Woodstock children from the garden to the macadam. The dad to pick up the tender “cargo” in Port Authority.

Decades later – after her own divorce – I learn how many times she stood there waiting alone in Port Authority. Waiting too long.